


Inquistion

by wneleh



Series: The Summer of 1999 (In which I try to get the guys past the events of TSbyBS happy, sane, and healthy) [7]
Category: Stargate SG-1, The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Smarm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wneleh/pseuds/wneleh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If only the prospect of being interrogated by the Air Force was Jim's biggest problem!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inquistion

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't going to make much sense without a little background. In "The Serpent and the Sentinel," I write about a goa'uld who thinks that our favorite sentinel might make a good host. He's wrong. This piece continues the story, from a different POV, and overlaps with "No More Lies," Blair's (rather orthogonal) take on things. Other events from my series "The Summer of 1999" are also alluded to.
> 
> This story has a lot of angst and a bit of smarm and H/C. Not as much as I meant for it to have, but those who have complimented me on my understatement may be disappointed.

Fleeing was pointless.

Fleeing was the only thing he could do.

He should have stayed in Cascade and used his connections to lay low.

His "connections" were mainly petty perps he paid $50 per tip; they'd sell him out in an instant.

He should have left Blair behind; the guy was too memorable, too completely unlike the typical Idaho ranch hand.

He doubted he could function without Blair. Especially now.

As his truck rattled across the Washington-Idaho border, Jim Ellison mused, not for the first time, that he was as screwed up as Ular had thought he was.

Ular. Jim knew, rationally, that he should be tremendously relieved to be free of the alien parasite - goa'uld, it had termed itself - who had occupied him for several terrifying days. But there was a gaping, baffling emptiness in his mind where Ular had been.

Equally disquieting was the feeling that Ular wasn't quite gone, despite the fact that he'd felt the creature emerge from his body during his "exorcism", seen the corpse (or, what remained of it) after his mother and Naomi Sandburg had finished with it.

His Ford crested a hill and the lights of another vehicle - another old pickup, though he couldn't discern the make - came into view. They were probably still a good mile apart. There was time to duck off the road now and hide.

No, that was ridiculous. If his mother and Naomi were sticking with the plan, nobody in authority would know anything about Ular until morning, and, unless the feds were more efficient than he'd ever found them to be, nobody should start looking for them until noon at the earliest, maybe not until much later.

Jim didn't doubt for a minute that he WOULD be sought, to find out what he knew about the goa'uld species, about other goa'ulds on Earth, and to make sure he hadn't become an agent of some sort. Jim's only question was, would he survive his interrogation.

He wasn't as worried about the safety of Blair, Naomi, and his own mother, the irrepressible Margaret Mary. None of them knew very much, really, and all could be written off as kooks.

As the other truck closed the distance between them, for a dizzying, terrifying instant Jim was not sure whether he was driving on the correct side of the road. Shouldn't he be on the left? No, as driver, he was supposed to be closest to the double-yellow line. And that's what he'd been doing since taking over the wheel from Blair - keeping the middle of the road to the outside of his side of the car, which meant staying to the right. He WASN'T Ular. He wasn't in Indonesia.

And then, as the old Chevy chugged past them, Jim had to fight every instinct to keep from swinging to the left, into the path of the oncoming vehicle.

Heart pounding, Jim pulled off the road and killed the engine. That had been much too close; his hands were shaking, and his hands DIDN'T shake!

"Huh?" Blair had been dozing ever since they'd stopped being able to get anything except static on the radio, about a half-hour before.

"Bed time," said Jim.

"Bed?" Blair looked around. With the headlights off and the moon up, Jim suspected that Blair could actually see pretty far. "Where's the beds?"

Jim laughed, happy to be able to relieve a bit of tension, the terror of the previous minute fading quickly. "There's none within 20 miles, unless you want to go get friendly with a rancher."

"I could drive," said Blair.

Jim looked at him closely. The kid looked like his fever was back; it was a warm night, but he was shaking a little, hunched in his medium-weight flannel shirt. No way was Blair driving. "Naw, let's just grab a few hours of shut-eye here. If we roll out our bags in the back.."

And, on cue, three huge raindrops splattered the front windshield.

"Okay, can that plan, let's just see if we can sleep here."

"In the cab?"

"You've been doing it all evening, Junior," said Jim.

"Well, if you can sleep in the truck, so can I, I guess" said Blair.

Jim rescued their sleeping bags from under the tarp in the bed of the pickup truck, and helped Blair, who seemed to be all thumbs, unzip his bag so that he could use it as a blanket. Jim then made his own nest, using a corner of his bag as a pillow to separate his cheek from the side window. Sleep came easily.

\- - - -

Jim was standing in the patchy shade of an olive tree, waiting for the sun to reach its apex, when Blair was supposed to meet him. He wasn't happy that Blair was continuing to work in this neighborhood - for a Jew, it was MUCH safer to stay out of the "good" parts of town - but Blair was being stubborn, and Jim couldn't deny that a paying job of any sort was a precious thing just now. So, he'd taken to walking his friend to and from this tutoring gig at the in-town house of Alonzo Garcia. As long as he pretended that he was accompanying Blair for the exercise, the other man seemed happy enough for the company.

As he watched a hawk soar overhead, three youths, who looked to be heading for a ren faire, passed him from behind, momentarily startling him. Shouldn't he have heard them 100 yards off?

It seemed he wasn't a sentinel just now. Well, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

The youths rounded the corner of the high wall surrounding the compound, passing out of sight. A moment later, there were oaths, and a cry of distress. Blair! Jim ran around the corner in time to see Blair falling back against the wall, clutching his thigh. Two of the youths had hold of his arms, and the third, knife in hand, seemed about to slit this throat.

Jim let out an inarticulate yell and charged, tackling the knife-wielder. Another let go of Blair and swung an inexpert fist at him; Jim caught the arm, then pulled his attacker's body toward him. Augmenting the lad's momentum with his own strength, he heaved, throwing the youth as far as he could, which turned out to be pretty far. The youth's body made a satisfying thud-crack when he landed; the other two boys fled, screaming curses.

Blair still leaned against the wall, chalk-faced, his trousers turning red. Except, it wasn't Blair, it was Pepe. The resemblance was uncanny, and he wondered whether it was this which had caused the creature to dislike Blair so much. Lingering hurt, dread, guilt on Ular's part? Because Jim was coming to realize that not only was he no longer in Idaho, he was also no longer in his own head. And that things would end badly for Pepe.

Well, not this instant, if he could help it. Pepe wasn't going to die from blood loss from a knife gash from a trio of kids.

"You'll be fine, my friend," he told Pepe. "Rest here a minute while I go into the Garcias' house for help."

"No!" hissed Pepe. "That boy you threw is Mrs. Garcia's nephew. A piece of trash, and the whole family knows it, but they won't take kindly to you just now."

Jim looked over at the youth, still lying in a heap. He twitched and moaned, now, though; he'd live. And, Jim would certainly be able to claim self-defense if he didn't. Pepe wouldn't be able to testify on his behalf, of course, but his own word was worth more than that of any dozen delinquents.

"Very well, then," said Jim. "Just lean on me."

Slowly, they hobbled the mile home. Of course, nobody stopped to help - Pepe's ethnicity was obvious. Once in their own small courtyard, Jim settled Pepe on their lowest chair and covered him with blankets from inside their one-room house.

By the time he managed to convince Pepe to let him look at the wound, it had stopped bleeding heavily; nonetheless, Jim insisted on cleaning it. Through it all, Pepe's breathed in hisses, but he didn't cry out except for the 20 seconds when Jim was pouring heated water through the gash.

"All done," Jim declared when the wound was as clean as he could make it. "It's not too deep. It should heal fine."

As he was wrapping (reasonably) clean cloths around Pepe's thigh, he realized Pepe was now laughing. "You know what's funny, my friend? This isn't the worst thing to happen to me today. That bastard, Alonzo Garcia, he fired me! Said it was nothing personal, he just couldn't afford to have me on his payroll right now. Well, I can't afford not to work!"

"Is that why his nephew attacked you?" Jim asked.

"No. Maybe. I don't know. They said they wanted money. I think I was just an easy mark."

And then, in a blink of an eye, it was a week later.

"Put those papers down! Start a fire! Set up the spit! Look what's for dinner!" Jim glanced up from the document he was translating to see Pepe, barely limping, come through their gateway holding aloft two plucked-and-bled chickens by their feet.

"Already!" Jim exclaimed. "But yes, those birds will take several hours to cook." The sun was starting to slip behind St. Maria's; in a few moments, it would be too dim in their courtyard to read anyway, and this job wasn't worth lighting a lantern for. He might as well spend the evening cooking.

"They're a present from Alonzo Garcia, would you believe it," explained Pepe. "See, I tell you, the tide is turning!"

"Mr. Garcia? Are you sure, then, that they aren't poisoned? I thought he wanted nothing more to do with you."

"Oh, that is just politics," said Pepe. "I ran into him not a half-hour ago, and he said that his wife's sister and her family have finally arrived from Paris, and that his children greeted their cousins with 'bon jour' and that he was so proud. He also said he felt bad about the run-in with those bigoted thugs you took care of outside his walls - said that whatever problems my people pose, they shouldn't be solved by violence. He even said he was ashamed that one of those boys was his sister's son. He ran over to Ines de la Vega's stall and bought these for us. See, they've already been seasoned!"

Jim, as usual, found himself grinning at Pepe's chatter while he started preparing for the slow task of cooking the birds.

"Right before I saw Mr. Garcia, I spoke with Isabel de Olso," continued Pepe. "She wants her sons to start studying Latin. Said she didn't care who I was - that she knew her boys would behave for me. And they will be, because I'm going to start with war stories! Grammar later, maybe, for those two. What do you think?"

"I think you should leave this country now, while you still can," Jim found himself saying.

"Not while I'm still getting jobs! I've moved too many times in my life. No more. Plus, you know there are rumors that the king may have a change of heart, for enough gold, and delay the expulsion, or drop the idea altogether."

"But compared to most of your people, you would have such an easy time of it. Instead of teaching French, or Latin, or Italian, or German, or Hebrew..."

"I don't teach Hebrew anymore!" cut in Pepe.

"Or whatever here, go to Italy and teach our language."

Pepe was now sitting, slowly turning the birds on their spit as the small fire spattered. "You are the one that is not aging, my friend," he said softly. "You are the one with the strength of five, when you need it. Me, I don't want to die in a foreign land. This has been my home for 30 years."

And Jim realized that, though he'd been seeing Pepe as being Blair's age, the other man was actually closer to 60. The hands turning the spit were spotted and sported swollen knuckles; the hat Pepe always wore to protect his face from the sun hid skin which was not made for a warm, bright climate, and showed the damage of time.

Jim's gaze continued downward, and he noticed that his friend's left trouser leg was stained. "Is your wound still not healed?" he asked.

Pepe grimaced and stretched out his leg. "It's another reason why I don't want to be traveling. It hurts like hell. Saw a doctor yesterday and he said the draining was a good sign."

"Physicians are idiots, you know that," said Jim. "May I look?"

With a sigh, Pepe let go of the spit and pulled up the loose pants leg. The five-inch gash had clearly gone bad. It oozed puss, and the entire region was red.

"So, you see, what the king decides to do or not do may be a moot point for me," he said.

Jim caught Pepe's chin in his hand. "Friend, I can cure you. That which keeps me young, which gives me my strength, I can share with you. But it will not be easy."

Pepe met his gaze. "Not yet."

Jim looked away and got up. In all his years of life, he'd never offered healing to a human, and it had been a long time since he'd considered the consequences. 'If you do this for Pepe, I will not run,' the host spoke in his mind. He felt the host was being truthful, but he also felt a bit of doubt in his host - the human he occupied craved freedom.

Then it was three days later and Pepe was lying on his mattress, speaking to demons.

'Do it now,' said the host. 'I promise I will stay and help, and not fight if you choose to return to me.'

So Jim bathed a knife in wine, then sat on Pepe's abdomen and quickly cut dead tissue and puss from the vicinity of the wound while the smaller man cried and thrashed ineffectually. He then slid off and turned, taking Pepe's hands in his. "This next part will not hurt," he promised. "Don't be afraid."

He slipped from the body that had been his vessel for 50 years and entered Pepe. There was not the slightest bit of resistance.

Over the next three days, he worked to marshal Pepe's resources to fight the infection at its site of origin and within his blood stream. And, for good measure, he healed the spots on Pepe's forehead and nose which he'd been worrying about for months, if not years, and tried to address the swelling of Pepe's knuckles, with more limited success.

After a day, he (or, rather, Pepe) would have been able to move and take care of basic needs, but his old host wouldn't let him, bringing food and water. A service he hadn't foreseen needing, but then it had never been his way, up to then, to care for another and he simply hadn't considered the details.

As Pepe's body got stronger, he dared touch the man's mind. He was afraid this would violate - something - but he had to know: Pepe, you know what I am. Why do you not hate me?

'Why don't you hate me?' responded Pepe. 'When you look at me, you have always just seen me, seen Pepe. My people, when they see me, see a Jew who mixes too freely with Gentiles. Everyone else sees a threat to Christendom, albeit one who can teach their children Latin declensions. Plus, you never try to cut in on my lady friends. And..."

And Jim woke up. He was in his pickup, scrunched behind the steering wheel. Next to him - Pepe! His heart leapt, and he reached over to shake his friend.

And Pepe turned into Blair Sandburg, 20th century American, age 29. And he was Jim Ellison. Not Ular. Never again.

They had to get moving. According to their plan, in a little while his mother and Naomi Sandburg would be taking the very dead corpse of Ular the goa'uld to Simon Banks and a priest who served the church where his mother was a secretary.

Jim completed the movement his hand had started in his instant of disorientation, and shook Blair's shoulder. "Hey, sleepy head. I want to get moving. Want to take care of business while we're off the road?"

Blair blinked sleep from his eyes and looked around. "Where are we?"

"Idaho," said Jim.

"Uhgh," said Blair. He slipped out of the car and headed for a friendly nearby boulder; Jim did the same, in the opposite direction.

Three minutes later, they were both back in the truck. "Steering wheel where it's supposed to be this morning?" asked Blair.

"Sure." Having Blair accompany him had been a last-minute decision, made after his first confused attempts at driving yesterday. It was as if Ular had reprogrammed part of his mind somehow. So, Blair had come along, and driven for a while until Jim had felt safe behind the wheel. Jim thought he'd done okay, the late-night near-collision with the other pickup truck notwithstanding. He figured he'd continue to keep that incident to himself - Blair was obviously fighting a bug of some kind, and Jim didn't want him behind the wheel.

"No more Ular, uh, bits, rattling around your brain?" asking Blair as they pulled onto the narrow blacktop.

"Nope," said Jim. Well, not unless you counted extremely vivid dreams. Though that had been more like a full-fledged flashback. To when, and where? Had Pepe really been so Blair-like, or had Jim's own mind supplied details where the remnants of Ular's memory failed him?

His own memories of the few days Ular had occupied him were fragmented at best; he didn't think there was some 1000 years of Ular's memories bounding around his head unbeknownst to him. In fact, he couldn't pull into his mind even an accounting of the hosts Ular had occupied. Which was probably for the best.

Maybe the dream had only been his attempt to imagine the sorts of memories that Ular MIGHT have had? Did that make any sense?

\- - - - -

As the miles of semi-barren hills and lightly forested valleys slipped by, the dream lingered in Jim's mind. Especially the shock he'd felt when he'd seen the damage to Pepe's leg and realized that there was only one way that he could heal his friend, and that he wanted his friend healed badly enough to do it. He thought back to the many times he and Blair had been banged up, with no lingering ill effects. Life had changed so much for humanity in just the past 100 years. Little things like the mess Blair had made of his hand the previous week when they'd had to scale that glass-topped wall in Jakarta - those sorts of injuries just didn't matter anymore, as long as you got decent first aide and didn't let things get out of hand.

Would he ever feel towards Blair what Ular had felt towards Pepe? Sure, he and the kid were close, but things still felt so awkward sometimes. Blair so often wouldn't listen to him, or just seemed to want to argue for the sake of arguing. Then, there were those moments, even now, when he needed Blair so desperately - like at that guesthouse in Jakarta, right after they'd climbed the wall. When he'd been drawn into hearing a woman burn to death, and Blair had broken the link. It was damn awkward to have that sort of thing happen with your best friend.

And then, there was the role Blair had paid in Ular's death. Jim knew he really shouldn't hold the kid responsible, but, darn it, Blair could have stopped Naomi and Margaret Mary from killing the helpless goa'uld if he'd wanted to. If he'd listened to him.

He glanced over at Blair, hunched over in the other seat, looking uncomfortable. "We'll sleep flat tonight," he promised. "And coffee soon."

Blair smiled a little. "Works for me."

\- - - - -

They came across a town about an hour into their drive. Jim sent Blair into the Kmart to get a few more basics that their hasty departure had left them without, such as a good-sized cooler, while he grabbed coffee, OJ, and donuts and gassed up the truck. Then, they were off again. He'd have liked to have handed off driving to Blair a little later in the morning so that he could study the maps he'd picked up at the gas station, but Blair had fallen asleep right after breakfast. So much for the power of caffeine. Or maybe grad students measured coffee intake in quarts, not cups.

They had an early, more substantial, lunch, at a truck stop where their path crossed a fairly major north/south roadway. The place was decently busy, but Jim felt that every eye that saw them was cataloging their appearance.

They got back on the road as quickly as possible. Jim held off getting ice and a final round of groceries, though, until they got to Buffalo Jaw. Soon after, they were in the badlands proper, on dirt roads. And Jim remembered why he'd been aiming here in the first place - out here, a guy could breathe. Could simply BE. If he were to be brought in (and he felt a dull certainty that it would happen), he wanted to first feel alive again. Like himself again.

He'd come out to this land years before, during spring break while in college. That year - he couldn't remember which, wasn't that strange - he'd ended up in a dorm room with two other ROTC students, and although they'd given him his space he'd found the experience unbearably oppressive. So he'd borrowed a truck and hit the road, driving all day and all night until he'd stopped from exhaustion. Then he'd lived on fish he caught for the next week and a half. He'd gone back to school completely refreshed and had pulled out his one and only 4.0.

Finally, he found the spot he was looking for, or one so close as to make no difference. He rousted Blair and happily extolled the virtues of their campsite - its invisibility from the road, a nearby spring that provided ice-cold fresh water, the Snake River tributary right over a small ridge which was loaded with fish.

"I think I've heard that before," said Blair, rolling his eyes.

"Well, maybe I've oversold a spot or two," said Jim. "But this is the real thing!"

Not wanting to waste daylight in case the fish were less friendly than he'd remembered, he directed Blair to get the water purifier assembled while he set up camp.

Five minutes later, Blair hadn't moved from the passenger's seat.

"Come on, get with the program, Sandburg!" he called. "That thing's solar operated, and I'd like to get it working on some water ASAP."

When he looked back over, Blair was sitting in the shade of the truck, shivering, with his hands wrapped around his stomach.

Blair didn't look too good.

Jim hurried over and crouched down. "We're wasting daylight, pal. You okay?"

In answer, Blair held out his left hand and pulled back the over-long sleeve of his flannel over-shirt.

Jim took the hand in his own. Blair's palm was wrapped in stained gauze, from which purplish, swollen fingers emerged. His arm was red down to his elbow. After a moment of shock, Jim unwrapped the gauze. Blair's hand was an absolute mess.

How could he have been so blind? Just like Pepe's leg. The dream - it had been trying to tell him that Blair was in trouble. But he was no goa'uld - he couldn't leap out of his body and heal Blair. It was a full minute before he realized he didn't have to.

"Sorry," said Blair.

"SORRY!" Jim almost shouted. He flicked his fingers against Blair's skull. "Just checking to see if you're hollow up there. Why the HELL did you come out here with your hand like that?"

"Well, it wasn't like THIS yesterday," Blair protested.

"But it wasn't healing, was it? What have you been putting on it? ANYTHING? Blair, people have been DYING of infection since the dawn of humanity. Why do you want to follow them?"

"I was following YOU!" said Blair. He pulled his hand back and curled around it again, now lying in the dirt. "Just drive me somewhere," he said. "I'll stall telling them my name long enough for you to get back here, or find an UNVIOLATED hole to hide in."

"Oh, Chief," sighed Jim. "We never get this wilderness thing right, do we?"

Blair sat back up and looked at Jim with sad, patient eyes. "Sorry," he said. "This is completely my fault. I know you're really worried about things. Just give me a lift back to Buffalo Jaw and I'll go to the clinic there. There was one right across from the gas station. I almost had you drop me there earlier."

"I'm not dropping you off anywhere, Chief," said Jim.

Not even Ular would have done that, at least not to Pepe. But then, Ular had never asked Pepe to give up his life's work, either. Damn it, he was one sorry SOB, just like Ular had constantly told him. "This ends now, Blair," he said, his voice suddenly strong; he didn't want to be able to deny anything later. "No more running, for either of us. No more lies."

Blair shook his head. "If anyone's really after you, you'll be toast as soon as my name hits the computer system." He paused, considering. "Though I could say I lost my insurance card and ID, and give them a false name."

"And have them withhold care, or something, until you're half-dead, or have them send you to Boise or something? No way. You need good care, and you don't get that by holding back information."

Jim got up and quickly struck camp. Then, he helped Blair into the truck. "Some day, we'll spend more than a half-hour here," he promised.

\- - - - -

Before they got moving, Jim had placed some of their ice in a tape-sealed plastic bag, and given it to Blair to hold against his hand and forearm, in a too-little-too-late move to stop the swelling. He'd also set Blair up with a bowl of broken-up ice chunks, to suck on.

Blair, huddled in on himself as they drove the dirt track back the way they'd come, was ignoring both.

"Can't we go a little faster?" Blair asked, uncurling for a moment to peak at the speedometer. "We did 25 coming in."

It didn't surprise Jim that, now that relief was on the horizon, Blair's reserves were flagging. Sighing, he said, "If the truck breaks down out here, and I can't get it fixed, you will die. You are in no shape for a 20-mile hike to the main road. Do you understand that?"

Blair didn't answer, but seemed to sink even more into himself, his breath hitching a little. Jim felt like a complete ass, but couldn't think of a way of taking the statement back: it was the truth. He reached out and shook Blair's shoulder gently. "Sorry, Chief," he said.

"Just drive," said Blair.

\- - - -

Like Jim had expected, the triage staff at the Hawk County Community Hospital took little time to determine that Blair's hand needed attention that evening, and that it was beyond what the nurse practitioner running the ER was comfortable dealing with under local anesthesia. Jim inquired as to whether it would be a good idea to have Blair med-flighted to somewhere more suited for operating on something as delicate as a hand, but was assured that the staff of the small hospital got lots of practice on 'cowboys and campers' with similar injuries. Sort of like wanting to be taken to the large, public, overcrowded Cascade General for serious gunshot wounds, Jim reasoned.

Blair said he was more concerned with having to be knocked out than with the competency of the local doctor; Jim presumed this was a residual effect of his experience with the designer drug 'golden'. Well, not much he could do about that.

The appropriate staffmembers were called back in, and Blair was quickly prepped for surgery. By the time Jim had finished arranging for the gear in the bed of the pickup to be secured in a locker, Blair was walking into the OR.

Jim fell into step next to him. "I'll be right down the hall," he said.

"Unless the black hats haul you off to the inquisition," said Blair.

"I'll make them wait."

"You'd better. I'm coming with you."

Jim spent the next two hours in the waiting room. It turned out to be a relatively quiet evening, by Jim's OR standards: a teenager who'd drunken several six-packs was brought in by her friends, and kept the staff busy for a bit; because of her, a five-year-old who'd tried to peel his own apple got to wait a bit before getting stitched up; and a possible stroke victim, driven to the hospital by his wife from what sounded like quite a distance, was quickly assessed then flown out. There was no stream of people using the ER as their family doctor, though. "It's not flu season, and they know we aren't staffed up for that anyway," explained the nurse in charge of the front desk, who Jim had been chatting with off and on all evening. Pretty eyes, sweet smile. Too bad she was married and had five children.

Jim remembered how, a few weeks ago, Blair had mentioned that he thought that he might like to be a doctor. Jim could really see Blair working in this sort of rural, fairly laid-back environment. To Jim, to spend a shift being puked or bled on would be hell, but to Blair it would probably seem very different.

And he could be 'Sheriff Jim' and grow a beer belly and learn to swagger. Maybe wreck some homes on the side, since every woman near his age had probably been married 20 years. Yeah, right.

Finally, Blair's surgeon came into the waiting area. "Can I see him right away?" asked Jim. "I think he was nervous about being disoriented when the anesthesia wares off."

The doctor nodded. "Okay, since the news is all good."

Jim followed him around a corner and down a short hallway. "We don't have a proper ICU," explained the doctor, "But Nurse Jones will stay with your friend until he wakes, or starts sleeping naturally. And, of course, we'll keep him on the IV and monitor his vitals closely for a few more hours. We'd like to keep him here for a few more days, but that's only so that he can keep on getting antibiotics intravenously."

As Jim entered Blair's room, he switched his full attention momentarily to his friend. "He's looking pretty good," he allowed.

The doctor nodded. "That IV is doing him a world of good. And his system has been putting a lot of energy into fighting the infection, which takes a toll. Plus, if I got his recent travels straight, it's been a while since he slept in a bed."

Yes, it had, indeed, been a hell of a week. "How's his hand?"

"I was able to get out all the infection and dead tissue. Fortunately, it's highly unlikely that there was any nerve damage, though of course we won't know for sure until he wakes up.

"There was some weakening of some of the bones in his palm, and if he experiences any pain he'll want to follow up with a specialist in Cascade. He, uh, probably won't be wanting to punch any walls left-handed."

"Can he shoot a gun?"

"I wouldn't okay him for military service, but based on his hair length I'm assuming that won't bother him too much. He can fire a rifle, once things heal. No time soon, though. He should probably have a specialist look at it thoroughly first, and then check in with a physical therapist to figure out how to do it safely. Maybe he could wear a glove or something. You two out here to hunt?"

"Uh, not exactly. Blair's been considering going into police work."

The doctor grimaced. "He really shouldn't be using his left hand for shooting a handgun, even just to lend stability. Will that be a problem?"

"Yes, that means the academy is out," said Jim. He sighed deeply. "Anything else we need to know?"

"I'm going to write up my notes, then stop back by before heading home. I'll be back in before lunch."

Blair stirred a little. "Hey, buddy, you waking up?" Jim asked, but Blair merely shifted slightly.

"He's coming out of the anesthesia, but he'll probably go straight to real sleep, given the hour and how tired he was. There's a motel across the street if you'd like to get some shut-eye yourself."

"No, I'll stay here," said Jim.

"Suit yourself," said the doctor.

When the doctor returned about a half-hour later, he shook Blair's shoulder. "Son, can you tell me your name?"

Blair's eyes opened about a quarter inch. "Blair Sandburg," he said. "Blair spelled like 'air'. Sandburg with a 'u'." And then he was asleep again.

The doctor nodded approvingly. "He's fine," he said. "We'll continue to monitor with instruments, but I'll let Betty," nodding to Nurse Jones, who had been sitting in the corner knitting, "get back to her normal work."

After the doctor left, Jim slipped out and gathered some ice chips and a couple of juice boxes, as well as some vending machine food for himself. He also picked up three weeks' worth of Time Magazine; it had been quite a while since he'd seen any sort of US news.

And it would keep his mind busy.

About an hour later, the nurse who had been Jim's main company during Blair's surgery came into the room, flanked by several men. The local fuzz. Delightful.

"Uh, Jim, sorry to interrupt you and your friend, but Sheriff Riley would like to speak with you."

"It's okay, Gina," said Jim. "I was sort of expecting something like this."

"Now you be nice to these folks," said Gina to the intruders as she ducked out, closing the door behind her.

Jim held his arms out slightly, keeping his hands open, palms up, to show he wasn't a threat.

"Uh, Detective Ellison, mind if we check you for weapons?" said the older of the two local men.

"Holster on my back, that's it," said Jim. If he was going to be frisked, it might as well be directed correctly.

The younger man reached behind Jim and removed the gun from beneath his light jacket, then quickly checked the rest of his body. The man smelled like hogs and pipe tobacco.

"Thank you for cooperating," said the older man. "I'm Sheriff George Riley, this is Deputy Matt Grainer. I'm assuming you know why we're here."

"Not the details," said Jim.

"Well, frankly, I was hoping you could fill US in," said the sheriff. "Got a call from the state police asking us to come over here and make sure you stayed put until Air Force shows up. I woke the county commissioner and protested that it sounded like a load of bull, then my wife, who's ex-Air Force, got a call from an old friend of hers saying that it was legit."

"Am I considered dangerous?"

"No, my instructions are that we should take your keys and your gun and keep an eye on you. Otherwise, to treat you as our guest."

"Afraid I can't tell you anything more," said Jim. "But I give you my word that I won't cause you any trouble." He slowly removed his keys from his pocket and handed them to Grainer.

"You look like a man of your word," said Riley, obviously pleased by the gesture. "But, Matt will stay outside the door, just in case."

"Do you know when my ride will get here?"

"Nope. Before dawn, I expect, or not much after."

Jim nodded. It was as he expected. It just had to all play out.

\- - - - -

A while later, Blair finally woke fully up. After making sure his friend was as comfortable as could be expected, Jim knew he had to say the impossible. "It's happening. They're really coming for me."

"Who?" Blair looked pale, maybe a bit panicky. Like Jim felt.

"I don't know. Probably the Air Force. The local sheriff came by and told me to stay put. There's a deputy outside the door."

"How high up are we? You could sneak out the window..."

"No, Chief. This stops now. No more running. No more lies."

"Shit. How long do we have?"

"A couple hours, I think. Maybe less."

"Maybe we could call someone?"

"No phone, Chief."

Blair looked around, as if doubting Jim, then said, "so what are we going to do?"

"Whatever we're told." Jim sighed. "I hate having to leave you here, like this. This isn't how I imagined things working out."

"This ISN'T how things are going to work out!" said Blair. "I'm going with you."

Jim shook his head. "Even if you weren't too sick to travel, they probably wouldn't take you."

"Bullshit," said Blair, sitting straight and gesturing as he spoke, as if to prove his vigor. "I can take whatever drugs I need, or they can stick another needle in my arm when we get wherever we're going. But you aren't going alone." He reached out and shook Jim's arm gently. "Seriously."

"Blair, where I'm going - it might not be the safest place to go. You won't be able to do a thing to protect me. I don't want you there, and I don't understand why you want to come."

Blair tightened his grip. "If you were to marry my ex, and run over my dog, I'd still do whatever I had to do to track you down if the black hats got you. You're stuck with me. Haven't you figured that out yet? I'm like gum on a shoe, man."

The night must have been catching up with him, thought Jim. Nothing Blair was saying was making sense. "Why would I shoot your dog?"

"It's - it's just a figure of speech," said Blair. "Ain't no way any lady of mine would take up with you anyway."

"Oh yeah, punk?" said Jim. The banter was forced, but it was moving them away from - from what was important, damn it. But Jim didn't know how to get back. So, instead he gave Blair the rundown of what the doctor had told him.

"Sounds like I got off easy," said Blair, annoyingly lightly.

"Yeah, you were pretty lucky," said Jim. "Except - you can't shoot."

"Hey, Brown says I have potential!"

"No, I mean, your left hand can't take the recoil. You could break half the bones."

"Even though I'm right-handed?"

"That helps some. But, to shoot well, you have to use both your hands sometimes."

"So. No academy," said Blair. He stared toward the window, just to have a place to put his gaze, it seemed to Jim. Then he sank back into his pillows and closed his eyes. "I'm too exhausted to figure out what to think. I'm sorry, Jim."

A minute later, Blair was asleep again.

Blair had looked so disheartened. Did that mean that he would have done it, would have joined the PD? Jim had given up hope a few weeks before, and the doctor's pronouncement earlier had been, well, a bit of a relief. An out for Blair.

Or, maybe Blair really didn't know what he wanted, and was mourning the loss of choice.

Jim glanced at the wall clock. 2:30 a.m. What time did his body think it was? Since he'd been able to sleep a bit the previous night, he'd thought that he'd readjusted to Pacific Daylight Savings, but right now he felt exhausted but absolutely incapable of sleep. He tried reading again, but his eyes wouldn't focus.

At 3 a.m., Nurse Jones came in, checked Blair's vitals, proclaimed him to be doing well, and removed the IV.

When she left, Jim slid his chair even closer to Blair's bed. His head was so heavy. He lowered the side of the bed and then leaned sideways towards Blair's mattress, crossing his arms beneath his head. This position wasn't so bad. Hadn't he had to do this in kindergarten, or something?

He closed his eyes. When he blinked them open a moment later, he was in the small house he shared with Blair - no, with Pepe. Of course. Sun streamed in from their east-facing window - it was morning. There was a rustle at the front door, and Pepe came in. This time, instead of a pair of chickens, he was holding a small piece of paper.

"Hello, Brother Jim! See, I am one of you now!"

Jim got up from his bed and snatched the paper from Pepe. A certificate of baptism? "This is a joke?"

"Oh, no! It's something I should have done a long time ago. Pride, though, you know."

"Fool! You've completely opened yourself up! As a Jew, the familiars haven't been interested in you."

"Until now. But in a month, being Jewish becomes punishable by death or, if one is lucky, forced expulsion. Father Hernando says that conversion will save me that, and he has always been a decent sort. He says that it looks good on his books too. Everybody wins."

Ah, Father Hernando. The rector of St. Maria's, their near neighbor. He'd always been friendly, especially to Pepe, stopping by from time to time to talk about the joy of teaching Latin to children.

Hernando was, still, one of THEM. The religious fanatics who had ruled the land. "And he believed you when you, what? Proclaimed Jesus Christ to be God, or something?" Jim spat.

"Father Hernando asked no such thing of me! But we did talk about that fellow, Jesus, a bit. He seemed a decent sort."

"This will never hold up, if it came to that."

"But it won't! I'm not the kind that they go after! I don't make enemies."

"Tell that to the thousands those lunatics have slaughtered."

"My friend, you are going soft! I thought you ignored all politics. Yes, it is true, but most people get in trouble for practicing Judaism, albeit in secret, or out of habit, while claiming to be Christians. I've never observed any Jewish customs, even in private, while in this country, so I won't slip up like that."

"I'll move with you. To Italy. We can leave tonight." Jim had never made the offer explicit. Maybe Pepe hadn't realized it existed.

Pepe beamed at him. "Thank you. But, no. The roads are crowded and we don't have enough gold between us to buy passage on a sound ship."

The fear in Jim's gut welled up. If Pepe was still there in a month, he would be killed, and there was nothing Jim could do to stop it.

He raised his head and blinked. He was back at the hospital, at Blair's bedside. At least nobody was trying to kill Blair; well, not at the moment. Jim wasn't nearly as certain about his own safety. He had no doubt that whomever was coming for him was going to wring every bit of knowledge of Ular from his mind. And then, what would they do with him? Would they just let him go? What safe thing could he give them to hold over him, to allow him freedom? It was far more likely that he would simply disappear. And there was nothing he could do about it. Helpless to save Pepe then, helpless to save himself now.

Well, that last bit was not quite true. Suicide by cop. Provoke Deputy Matt and see what would happen.

Probably he'd just be left a vegetable. Not a good plan.

And what would that do to Blair?

Blinking moisture from his eyes, he put his head back down on Blair's mattress. Just a little more time, that's all he wanted. Time, at least, to make things right with Blair.

A while later - maybe a few minutes, maybe an hour - he felt Blair's fingertips brush the top of his head, and a low voice ask "Jim? What's wrong?"

Jim had no idea where to begin.

"Jim, I need you to look at me. Now!"

Jim straightened. Here I am, he thought. Your sentinel. Not what you bargained for.

"Hey," said Blair, "everything's going to be okay."

Jim shook his head. Blair, as naive as Pepe. He grasped Blair's hand - Blair had to hear him, had to listen, and not debate with him, for once. "I want you to publish, Blair. Everything you know about sentinels. I don't want you to hide anything, either now or in the future. Whether I come back or not. Simon and Megan will back you up, and Simon'll also let you know what you should delay for a year or two. But don't hold back anything longer than that."

And, for once in his life, Blair didn't fight, didn't argue. "Okay, Jim," said Blair. "But I need something from you, too."

How could Blair have a request? Jim was utterly empty, save for his memories. His and Ular's.

Blair took a deep breath and squeezed his hand. "I need you to forgive our moms for Ular. And me, too."

"I've already forgiven Margaret Mary and Naomi. Back in Cascade. They didn't know what they were doing."

"But not me?"

Jim looked away; if he didn't, he would crumble. But he held on to Blair, hoping that this wouldn't be the memory of him that Blair would hold most to. "Please don't think I hate you, Blair..."

"Jim, what the HELL would YOU have done?"

The question felt like a blow.

Blair continued, "If a mind-controlling snake from outer space had just crawled out of MY mouth, would you have treated it with kid gloves until you could figure out how to Mirandize it?"

Jim now stared at Blair.

"Come on, Jim, I know you would have made sure I was okay before you did anything else. Except, maybe, kill it if you thought it was a threat. You wouldn't have jumped to save it if you thought I was in pain and needed your help."

"I was okay," Jim protested.

"Bullshit," said Blair. "What would you have done?"

"Blair - I'm not used to thinking about things in that way."

"What, you don't do empathy?"

"No. Doesn't work for me."

"That's impossible," said Blair. "You're about as empathetic as they come!"

How could he explain this? Without sounding like a total jerk? "Blair, I don't hold the world to the standards I hold myself to. I'm not some sort of superman, but between my senses and my training, I can do a lot of things others can't. Handle things that other people can't. You see what I'm saying?"

Blair nodded. "Yeah, sure, like I don't necessarily expect everyone I know to have a Master's degree. What's that got to do with empathy?"

"Just hear me out," said Jim. "I've also seen enough bad shit happen that if I let myself feel what other people felt, I think I'd lose my mind."

"Like that evening in Jakarta," breathed Blair.

"Yeah," said Jim. "Between not letting myself feel too much, and not letting myself judge too much - I just don't do that 'mile in your moccasins' thing."

"I'm sorry," said Blair.

"Being able to place yourself in others' shoes is that important to you?" Jim asked.

"Well, yeah!"

"This going into your paper?"

That bit caught Blair off-guard. "Yes! No! Uh, maybe..."

Jim had to smile. "Gotcha, Junior." He sobered. "I take your point, though. I'd have probably wasted Ular." He let go of Blair's hand, feeling enormously relieved. He HADN'T wanted to leave Blair with that between them.

Blair seemed to realize this, too. "You know, you ARE the most screwed-up person I've ever met," he said. "Well, with the exception of David Lash. And Chapel. And..."

"And the list goes on and on, doesn't it?" mused Jim. "But Ular would have agreed with you heartily."

"What did Ular..." Blair began.

Jim held up a hand. No, there was no mistaking that sound. "Shhh... hear that?" he asked.

A moment later, Blair nodded. "Is whatever we're hearing big enough for both of us?"

"Yup," said Jim. "And twenty of our closest friends."

The next half-hour was occupied with getting Blair cleaned up, dressed, and fed an early breakfast. Jim continued to insist that Blair was staying at the hospital, but Blair countered that, WHATEVER was heading their way, he didn't want to face it grungy and in hospital garb.

When the feds finally showed up, it was rather anti-climactic. Two flight boys sauntered in wearing full battle gear, bringing regards from, of all people, Jack O'Neill, and requesting that they both accompany them. So, they did, with all their camping gear, a couple of bottles of pills, and several pages of instructions on BlairCare.

Four hours and one change of craft later, they were in Colorado.

\- - - -

Getting off the small transport felt like walking into a furnace, and reminded Jim of why he'd returned to Cascade after leaving the military. Even before his sentinel abilities had reappeared, he'd disliked being too hot or too cold.

Blair was two steps behind him. "Wow, finally some place I'm actually warm!" he said. "I hope a/c isn't ubiquitous."

"We're in the hands of the U.S. military," said Jim. "Expect everywhere to be either 60 or 90."

At the base of the portable stairs, two black sedans, a jeep, and a cluster of six airmen and officers awaited them.

"Just follow my lead, Chief," said Jim. "Remember, everything comes out. No more lies."

"Welcome to Colorado Springs, Mr. Ellison, Mr. Sandburg," said the senior officer, a Captain Carter according to her insignia and name badge. "You'll be traveling with Lt. Mathis. Mr. Sandburg, please come this way."

To accent her request, she placed a hand on Blair's elbow; he let himself be led away, weakly protesting, "Where are you taking me? I thought I was staying with Jim."

"We want to talk with you separately," said the woman. She guided him into one of the sedans. "And I think you're scheduled for another dose of IV antibiotics..."

And before Jim could even say goodbye, Blair was gone. How'd that happen? Was being back in a military environment stripping him of his edge? Or maybe it was the lack of real shut-eye. Whatever.

And then, he was in the back of the other sedan. "Where are we going?" he asked.

"I'm afraid we can't say, sir," said the corporal at the wheel. The other two men remained silent.

The small military transport had been too cold and noisy for sleep (or conversation or clear thought, at that). The sedan was only marginally less cramped, but otherwise it felt like paradise. He closed his eyes.

"There he is, the Jewish sorcerer that crippled my nephew." Alonzo Garcia's wife had appeared in the gateway of the courtyard outside the house he shared with Pepe. Except, wasn't that woman really Captain Carter, the officer who had escorted Blair away from him on the tarmac 20 minutes ago? Her face was contorted with rage.

Jim looked around, confused. No, that was Blair, not Pepe, being hauled out their door. A burly soldier - ranger, at that - had Blair's arms pinned behind his back; Blair was struggling wildly and landing a few kicks, but the soldier didn't seem to much be bothered by them. "This is the man you say threw your nephew 20 feet?" he asked, incredulously.

That was me, thought Jim. I threw Mrs. Garcia's brat of a nephew as far as I could, after he and his bully friends attacked Pepe. Pepe couldn't throw a sack of flour 20 feet.

"I am not a Jew!" Blair - now morphed into Pepe again - was screaming. "Ask Father Hernandez!"

"We're going to see Hernandez next," said another of the soldiers. "We've had our eyes on him for some time."

All remaining color drained from Pepe's face. His eyes found Jim's. This is it, Jim though, he'll name me now, to lessen his own punishment. But, instead, Pepe looked away and continued to writhe, uselessly.

Jim awoke then; the car had been parked in front of a long, low, stucco house set in the middle of a government-regulation manicured lawn. The small property was bordered by a serious-looking wooden fence, maybe 12 feet high. The other occupants of the vehicle were busying themselves with undoing belts and gathering belongings, so Jim did likewise. "Where's Blair?" he asked, softly, to no one in particular; nobody seemed to take notice.

He knew that things could play out in several ways. The best-case scenario was that Blair's conversion would be disallowed, and he would be force-marched to the port and put on a ship as free labor. But, it was a long walk from Colorado to any useful port, wasn't it? Not like being in Cascade.

It was more likely that Blair would be held in solitary confinement until a proper examination could be held. Then, he'd be given several chances to come clean - to proclaim his piety, and name a few names. With a little torture thrown in, to loosen his tongue.

A priest who was dressed like an air force colonel and looked just like Jack O'Neill was now talking to him, shaking his hand, drawing him into the house. St. Maria's, he was pretty sure, but it had been redecorated into suburban bland.

And it smelled like goa'uld. Lots of different goa'ulds. He looked around wildly. "They're here!" Would they recognize him as one of them? Would they blow his cover?

"Jim!" Jack was shaking his arm now. Maybe Jack should be told about the goa'ulds. Wasn't that why he was here? No, he was here because he was a sentinel and they wanted to clone him, to make an army of warrior sentinels for the monarchy, or maybe the pope. That didn't seem like the sort of thing Jack O'Neill would be into, but you could never tell about people, especially those living in fear.

He backed out of the foyer and onto the front stoop. "Goa'ulds, Jack," he said, in a whisper; maybe some of the soldiers were goa'ulds. They had to be very quiet.

"Shit!" said Jack. "I didn't think. Ramona! Ramona, who were the last guests here?"

"A delegation of Tok'ra left yesterday," said a young female private. Shouldn't she be wearing a skirt? Wasn't dressing like an airman a heresy?

"Sorry, Jim. You might be sniffing out the last folks to stay here. Tok'ra. Annoying SOBs, the lot of them, but they're on our side. Or we're on their side. Or something."

"I can't go in there," said Jim. Still backing up, he stepped off the stoop and fell, landing hard on his right hip and elbow. He crab-crawled backwards, then leapt up for the cover of the south side of St. Maria's.

"Oh, for Pete's sake!" said Jack's voice. "Close the gate, guys!"

He felt, heard, a clang of something large and metallic. The gate. He must now be trapped. He looked left and right - he saw no pursuers, and the stench of goa'uld had lessened, but he was exposed against the side of the building.

There was no shade here, and suddenly he was unbearably hot. Like the fires that had consumed Pepe.

How could he have forgotten?

He slid down the wall, his shirt catching on the clay then releasing as he descended. Clenching his eyes shut, he saw Blair, garbed in yellow, tied to a stake. No, no, it wasn't Blair there, it had been Pepe, long ago.

The kindling beneath the figure was lit, and Jim heard a scream. Jim had to get to him. But he didn't know where to go - the image faltered and disappeared when his eyes were opened.

Jack came around the side of the building - house? - church? - his hands out where Jim could see them. "Jim, what's up?"

"They burned him, Jack, and I couldn't help him."

"Who?"

"Pepe. And now they're going to burn Blair. I can see it."

"Blair's with Captain Carter. We wanted to debrief you two separately for a few hours, before we decide your need-to-know."

Jim's eyes were filling with moisture, and he was finding it hard to bring in enough air. No, he couldn't fall apart now! He bolted up and ran for the fence, expecting to feel a jab to his back. He hit the fence with a running jump, but it was too high; his palms scraped wood a good two feet below the topping barbed wire. He spun around; Jack was jogging toward him. "Easy, Jim, I think you're processing some goa'uld memories. That can be a pretty rocky experience."

Jim shook his head. "I've failed him." How, how??

The fence afforded a little shade and he sank down again. His heart pounded, a hundred times faster than when he'd been in combat, or when he was fighting hand-to-hand. Too fast. If a heart beats too fast, it doesn't pump, and your brain dies. That must be why he was drifting now. Before the burning, to Pepe's trial. Pepe was trying to save himself, but his words tripped him up. Pepe, who lived for language, didn't know the proper creeds. Was just not convincing, even when lying for his life. Jim remembered, now, that he had become a familiar himself, in order to help Pepe somehow, perhaps... but now he looked across the dim room and recognized Seth, aka Father Joseph Diego, the only other goa'uld he ever crossed paths with these days. Seth nodded at him, and he nodded back. Let these stupid humans destroy each other, was the message, they'll be a weaker race for it.

Jim opened his eyes again. He was back in Colorado, against the fence. The large wrought-iron gate he'd heard closing a while before was now swinging open, and one of those damn black sedans drove through. He started to get up, to try to make a break, but then one of the rear doors of the car opened, and it came to a screeching halt.

Blair. Coming out of the car, jogging towards him.

Jim stayed motionless against the fence, pinned in place somehow.

In seconds, Blair was in front of him. "Jim? Jack gave Sam a call saying you were freaking out a little?"

Jim stepped forward and seized Blair by the shoulders. "You escaped! But how? I saw them tying you to a post..."

"Jim, you're having a flashback, or something. These aren't your memories. Sam..."

"Who?"

"Captain Carter said that she was surprised you were functioning as well as you've been."

"She reported you! Handed you over." He looked towards St. Maria's and saw the woman emerging from the sedan, now parked next to its twin. "I'll kill her!"

"No, Jim!" Blair's fingers dug into his shoulders. Pain. That meant that this was real, right? The woman who had turned Blair over was really there.

Or was it Pepe she'd reported?

Jim took three quick, shallow breaths; he did not like the way the world was swaying. "I don't feel so good, Chief," he said.

Damn it, now he was fainting, albeit in slow motion. He felt Blair release his shoulders and slide an arm behind his back, then ease him down, his back against the fence. Good, at least he would still be able to see who was coming, that was, if his eyes worked right. They'd somehow filled with saltwater. Traitors.

"Water?" he heard Blair say, Jim had no idea whom to.

Then Blair's arm - right arm, good thing, that way his bandages wouldn't get messed up - went behind Jim's neck, and his hand pulled Jim's head down to Blair's shoulder.

"It's okay, Jim," said Blair. "Talk to me. What do you see?"

"Nothing," said Jim. "My eyes are closed."

"Fair enough," said Blair. "Why do you think I'm in danger?"

"They burned Pepe, and they..."

He wanted to keep talking, but nothing was cooperating. And, now he WAS seeing something - Pepe writhing as his gown caught fire. "No..." he pleaded.

"S'okay," said Blair. Blair was rubbing his back, his right shoulder; Blair's bandaged hand now covered Jim's own hands.

"He didn't deserve to die," said Jim.

"No, he didn't," said Blair. But Blair couldn't have any idea who he was talking about, right? Which meant Blair was patronizing him. Jim decided that that was probably a really good idea just now.

A stir of air meant that someone else was close. And then Blair was withdrawing slightly, then thrusting a plastic bottle into Jim's hands. "Drink a little," Blair said.

"What's this?"

"A brand you've had before. It's safe."

"We don't have plastic bottles here."

"Well, obviously, we do," said Blair, sounding just a tiny bit peeved. "I'm sure they recycle them, though. Now Drink."

So Jim drank, just a little, then allowed Blair to resume his hold.

"I'm falling apart," he commented a minute later.

"Just a little," said Blair. "Sam says it gets better after three or four days. Though since it took about two days for things to catch up with you, maybe you're on your own schedule."

Days? "I can't take days of this," said Jim.

"Yes you can," said Blair. "And anyway, that's what I'm here for."

"You're here for your dissertation." A nice, reasonable statement; his voice didn't even crack.

"Bullshit," said Blair, which was a horrible thing for him to have said because now Jim was again having trouble breathing, swallowing, FORGET talking.

More movement occurred on the periphery of Jim's consciousness, and now they were in shade. "They've just rigged up a towel, to block the sun. Want to go inside where it's cooler?"

Jim shook his head. He never wanted to move again. So, they sat, Blair making them sway a little and rubbing his arm. Letting him know he was there, Jim knew.

After a bit, he tried again. "I know it wasn't you that burned. But you're so much like Pepe."

"Pepe?"

"Ular's roommate. He was a language tutor, and I - I translated things. We helped each other out. I think it was the only time I ever earned an honest living. Pepe didn't leave when the expulsion order came down. And then he converted, which was his undoing, because that made him a heretic." He twisted so that he could peer into Blair's eyes. "Promise me you'd never do anything so stupid."

"I promise," said Blair, quizzically, and Jim realized that, at that moment, Blair would say anything to keep him calm. He'd have to revisit the subject some time when he wasn't crying on Blair's shoulder.

Jim gulped a sigh. "He probably would have been killed just for staying, anyway. I shouldn't blame him. Oh, and the witchcraft charge. Which was my fault too."

"Ular's fault."

Jim nodded. Whatever. "If they hear about the expulsion order here, promise me you'll go. I'll go with you. You're a lot younger than Pepe. You can handle a long walk."

And he was back in his truck, in scrub country, telling Blair he'd die if he had to walk 20 miles. Was that still true? Blair's hand was okay now, right?

This was driving him crazy.

"What expulsion order?" asked Blair, drawing him back to the immaculate lawn.

"Isabel insisted. Ferdinand was going to accept a payoff, but Isabel insisted."

"Ferdinand and Isabella?" said Blair. "Oh wow!"

And Blair was chuckling.

"I'm sorry," Blair said quickly. "I've figured it out, though. I know why this has thrown you for a loop."

"Ugh?"

"NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition!"

Jim sat up and turned to face him. "Blair, this isn't funny."

"No, of course not. Spanish Inquisition, Jim. You've got to know it. 'Our chief weapon is surprise and fear and - and something else.'"

Jim knew this! "'Surprise and fear and surprise,'" he quoted. "But there was nothing surprising about them. Pepe should have known he was setting himself up."

"'Our weapons are fear and surprise and ruthless efficiency,'" Blair said.

"No," said Jim, straightening. Who'd have believed that he knew this better than Blair? "'Our TWO weapons are fear and surprise and ruthless efficiency. Oops, our THREE weapons are fear, surprise, and ruthless efficiency, and an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope.' Which isn't quite right. Italy would have been safe. Safer than..." Than where? This wasn't St. Maria's! It was Colorado, not - where? Had those memories really been from Spain?

"So, our four weapons are..." said Blair.

"'Amongst our weaponry are such elements as fear, surprise,' and then they leave and come back again," said Jim, trying to remember the exact wording of the old sketch. Wherever he kept such information in his brain, it was far from the area Ular had screwed up, he realized.

"How long ago?" he asked, knowing Blair would know what he was talking about.

"All Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492," said Blair.

"When Columbus sailed the ocean blue," Jim murmured.

Blair shook his leg. "You back with me?"

"Yeah," said Jim. "Things are receding a little. It's not like it's all happening right now, in front of me."

"Must have gotten another part of your brain working," said Blair. "That's - that's really good to know how to do."

Jim wiped his sleeve across his eyes. He really DID feel fine now, if you counted exhausted, embarrassed, stiff, and starving as "fine." Blair shifted his weight a little, giving him a more normal amount of personal space, and waved towards the house. It was obvious that the change had been noticed already by others as well, though - Jack O'Neill, Samantha Carter, Daniel Jackson, and another woman captain he hadn't met were trotting out already. Jackson looked like he was carrying a picnic basket - yup, that's what it was - and the unknown woman was carrying an IV bag and a collapsed pole.

"I don't need drugs..." he started to say as they got close enough for conversation.

"These are for Mr. Sandburg," said the woman. "I'm Dr. Fraiser, and you," she said, speaking to Blair, "are two hours overdue for your antibiotics."

So Blair leaned against the fence and let the doctor poke another hole in his body, and the others spread out a blanket and produced sandwiches and potato chips and a six-pack of Coke. "We get all sorts of guests here," explained Jack, gesturing to the matching plastic plates, flatware, and goblets. "Out-of-towners love it when we do things like this for them."

"Right..." said Jim.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Jim ventured to speak again. "I've got to say - this is all about as weird as some of the things I've been, uh, seeing."

"I was possessed once," said Carter. "We all understand."

Jack cleared his voice. "We're all part of an Air Force project called the Search for Goa'uld Committee. SGC, for short, though even the acronym's classified. We don't work out of this place, it's just a safehouse we use from time to time. As soon as we get a few things cleared up, we'll move you to our main facility."

"So, the job you wanted to offer Jim a few months ago - that was to help you find goa'ulds?" Blair asked.

"Yup," said Jack, around a mouthful of turkey on rye. "Never guessed they'd find him first."

"So these things are wandering around attacking people?" said Blair, starting to get into 'agitated' mode. "And you haven't warned people? That's - that's - that's unconscionable."

"It's a bit more complicated than that," said Jackson, but he stopped speaking when Jack waved his sandwich at him.

"So, what were you experiencing?" asked Jack.

"Somewhere in Spain. 1492, Blair thinks."

"You don't know?"

"Don't have to, when I've got Sandburg around," said Jim, hoping that they'd take the hint.

"Learned our lesson," said Jack. "Sandburg stays."

\- - - -

After his first adequate meal in over a day, Jim found himself able to handle the inside of the house, even with its air of, well, goa'uldness. He sat in an easy chair and, while one corporal took notes and other manned a video camera, told them all he could remember of his - no, ULAR'S - time in Spain, though they only seemed interested in the other goa'uld he'd known there. Seth. Unfortunately, there was little he could tell that he could imagine would be useful.

He and Blair were allowed to retreat to connecting rooms on the second floor in the early evening. Apparently the prior, goa'uld-bearing visitors to the house - the Tok'ra - were suspicious of stairs, and hadn't used the upper quarters.

While Jim changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt for sleeping, Blair perched on the edge of Jim's bed. "I don't like this," Blair said for about the hundredth time.

"You don't have to like it," said Jim. "The question is, will you stay here, or head home before you learn more than can be easily discredited."

"They can't hold us."

"Yes, they can. And I'm here willingly."

"Why?"

"Because I want to help."

"Damn it, Jim!" There was an edge, a shrillness, that Blair had managed to keep out of his voice until now.

"You can go now." Jim stopped what he was doing to make sure Blair could see his eyes, to try to be as convincing as possible. "I'll be fine."

"Hey, I thought our new motto was 'no more lies'?" said Blair. "I can't leave, with you here. I just don't want to see you - torn up and spit out."

"Ular's memories are inside me, Chief. They might as well come out now, not in dribs and drabs."

"So, what am I supposed to do?"

"Hang around and pick up the pieces?"

"Wonderful," said Blair. He picked up a paperback mystery he'd liberated from a bookshelf downstairs. "Well, tuck yourself in, I'll stay here and read a while."

"In my room?"

"Of course. Go to sleep, Jim."

So he did.

Was Blair REALLY humming "The inquisition, what a show"?

**Author's Note:**

> End notes: The main sites I consulted for information on the Spanish Inquisition have, unfortunately, disappeared.
> 
> Bits of the Monty Python skit quoted were taken from http://www.ai.mit.edu/people/paulfitz/spanish/script.html.


End file.
